Asher stepped into the grand hall, his boots striking the polished marble with a sharp, hollow echo that reverberated through the cavernous space. The air hung heavy with the sterile scent of polished wood and wax, a stark contrast to the wild, earthy tang of sweat and pine that clung to him from years in the training grounds. Eight years had sculpted him—a lean, muscled figure moving with quiet precision—but grief festered within him like damp rot, dulling his eyes as they swept the room, shadowed and unyielding.
At the far end stood Princess Elara of Whitewood, flanked by two female guards clad in gleaming armor that caught the flickering torchlight. She was striking—tall and regal, her auburn hair cascading in disciplined waves down her back, her emerald eyes cutting through the dimness with a piercing intensity. Her deep green tunic, edged with silver thread, hugged her frame, exuding authority. Yet a flicker of curiosity danced in her gaze as it settled on him. She inclined her head, her voice smooth and measured. "A pleasure to meet you, Prince Asher. They call you a beauty of your kingdom—I thought it an exaggeration, but you are indeed striking. Unlike most men, you carry muscle… like a woman." She stepped closer, her boots clicking softly, and brushed a hand against his chest, her lips curling faintly. "I don't mind it. In fact, I'd love it—Whitewood could use a spark like you."
Asher's hand moved instinctively, gently pushing her away, his voice steady despite the intrusion. "I'm not here for flattery."
Elara froze for a heartbeat, her hand hovering in midair, her emerald eyes widening with a flash of surprise before narrowing into a glint of intrigue. "Well, now," she murmured, her tone laced with amusement, "that's a first." She stepped back, her smile sharpening as she turned with a flourish, gesturing toward the hall's exit. "Come, the queen awaits us."
They walked in silence, the clack of their steps blending with the distant hum of the palace, until they reached the monarch's residence—a towering chamber of cold stone and gilded banners. Together, they knelt before Queen Luna, their greetings murmured in unison. "Rise," she commanded, her voice a blade cutting through the stillness, though a faint tremor lingered beneath its edge.
Luna sat regally atop her throne, her dark hair streaked with silver, her piercing eyes fixed on Elara. "Princess, your father and I have settled it. Your marriage to my son will bind Whitewood and Starfall, bolstering our stand against the demon raids creeping closer."
Elara curtsied with graceful precision, her tone warm yet calculated. "I welcome this union, Your Majesty. Asher… intrigues me." Her gaze flicked to him, a spark of interest lingering.
Luna turned to Asher, her expression expectant, but his face remained a stoic mask, carved from years of silent mourning. He stepped forward, his voice firm, cutting through the tension. "Mother, I decline. My path is set—avenging Ava's death, not forging political ties."
The queen's face hardened, her eyes narrowing into icy slits, but a shadow of pain flickered there, her hand tightening on the throne's armrest. "Ava's death weighs on us all, Asher, and this alliance could heal that wound for our people." Her voice dipped, a fleeting hesitation breaking through before it sharpened with disdain. "But tell me—what makes you think you can succeed where she fell? You, a man bound by your own frailty?"
Asher's jaw clenched, her words stinging like echoes of Aiko's old taunts—"Why are you so lazy, Kannon?"—but he buried the ache deep, his resolve a shield. Luna pressed on, her tone growing colder, though her gaze wavered briefly, haunted. "Princess Elara deserves a partner who can stand tall, not a boy who wasted years dreaming instead of doing."
Elara shifted, her fingers brushing the hilt of her dagger before she stepped forward, her voice rising with a bold edge. "With respect, Your Majesty, I've seen men crumble under less. Asher's fire might burn brighter than you think—why snuff it out for tradition's sake?"
Luna's head snapped toward Elara, her lips thinning into a tight line, a flash of displeasure darkening her gaze. "Fire without power is smoke, Princess," she retorted, her voice cracking faintly with suppressed grief. She turned back to Asher, rising from her throne, her shadow looming. "You've sculpted a body, yes, but it's hollow pride. The Goddess decreed women warriors—your defiance mocks her will and Ava's memory."
Asher's eyes blazed, his fists tightening at his sides. "I don't mock Ava. I honor her by refusing to let her soul rot in that demon's grasp."
Luna's eyes darted to Ava's old seat at the table's end, empty and dust-laden, then hardened as a choked breath escaped her. "Honor?" Her voice rose, trembling with a mix of sorrow and fury. "You speak of honor when you can't even protect yourself? Agree to this marriage, Asher—bind yourself to Elara and serve your kingdom—or must I ask again what you'd sacrifice for a lost cause?"
He stood firm, his voice steady as iron. "You'd use Ava's life to chain me?"
Her tone turned frigid, her hand trembling as it gripped her sword hilt. "I'll do what's best for this kingdom. Agree, or I'll disown you—cast you out beyond our borders, stripped of name and shield, left to the wilds where demons roam unchecked."
Asher's lips twisted into a bitter smile, his chest tightening as her threat landed—Aiko's voice whispering "You'll lose everything"—but he shoved the doubt aside, his eyes glinting with cold resolve. "I'd rather face the wilds than let you—or this world—chain me." He turned, his boots striking the marble as he began to walk away.
"You'll regret this," Luna called after him, her voice a venomous hiss laced with a mother's broken edge.
Asher paused, his bitter smile never wavering, his shoulders squared against her threat. "I'd regret it more if I'd agreed. This isn't a hero's rise or a villain's fall. It's me breaking free from the chains."